


Like Glass

by Charmtion



Series: We are Wolves [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Repressed Memories, Sexual Content, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 16:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17963963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: “Father thought me a fox. He never saw the wolf beneath the amber — the steel beneath the silk.” Blue ice cutting starlight in the shadows; he meets her gaze. “He saw what all men see when they look at me — a soft, pretty thing grasping spread-fingered for a knight to save her.”Wolves that run together will soon run apart//Jon prepares to leave for Dragonstone; Sansa is haunted by wraith-filled dreams.





	Like Glass

She is like glass in the moonlight: silver-shimmer skin, flames for hair, lashes swept down upon her cheeks. Perfectly set — her fingers a butterfly spread-winged on the pillow beside her head — as if a craftsman has poured her frame just _so_ across the bed.

Beside her, he crooks on his elbow; a finger, light-footed, trailing the column of her throat.

Glass, for true — half a hundred jewel-bright shades of it: opal, ruby, moonstone shifting like water-ripples beneath the path of his touch. Sapphire, too, as she blinks open her eyes and gazes up at him: crystal-calm current lapping the shore of his heart.

“Careful,” she says. “I might break.”

“Delicate, dutiful.” Fingertip running the seashell-silk of her mouth. “That’s what Father always said of you.”

A flash of thunder in her eyes: white-forked. “Father thought me a fox. He never saw the wolf beneath the amber — the steel beneath the silk.” Blue ice cutting starlight in the shadows; he meets her gaze. “He saw what all men see when they look at me — a soft, pretty thing grasping spread-fingered for a knight to save her.”

She _is_ like glass in the moonlight: newly-formed, freshly-wrought, red-hot poured to match the fire of her hair. It flashes as the thunder in her eyes — _there_ , the eagle-sharp edge of her cheekbone; _here_ , the way seashell-silk gives way to steel: sharp white teeth nipping at the press of his fingertip.

Glass, for true, with all its beauty — and only some of its fragility.

Still, she folds beneath him in all its jewel-bright shades: opal, ruby, moonstone, sapphire shifting against his skin like eddies on a lake. Water parting for a footstep; she opens for him, thighs shifting silver in the moonlight, frost-tinged skin closing against his hips. A sailor to a siren’s spell, he sinks into the heartbeat between her legs: fire-red, like her hair — it warms his blood, turns his bones to ash, his breath to smoke: white-shot against the black-and-silver air.

Glass, for true — a crack in her throat as she kisses him: a moan, a mewl, faint as breath. He tastes its sound; honey-sweet current lapping the shore of his heart.

 

* * *

 

He sleeps: a slumber-song of ivory and ebony. A lord laid out for burial — straight-shouldered, fingers link-locked across the warrior’s span of his chest — spectre-pale against the bearskin-shadows of the bed. So _still_ , it scares her; an ear to his chest, she drinks the thrum of his heart as a hummingbird to nectar.

Beside him, she crooks on her elbow; sapphire gaze, light-winged, flitting the lines of his face.

Her fingertip follows the path well-trod by her eyes: cheekbones hard-carved as bluffs and plains beneath the wild black beard, the line of brow and nose and lip and chin a song of dark mountains brushed with snow.

He is many things in the moonlight: steel and storm and smoke and snow-clad sentinels — his breath a whisper of their leaves that sings of hearth and home and heart tree.

Sometimes, he is more.

Sometimes, when he gives a sigh in sleep or crooks a brow in the dust of dreams — then, just _then_ , he is their father: stern-faced, storm-eyed, silent — _silenced_.

A shiver in the dark; her skin a blot of ice-prickles to feel the ghosts that move thick as moonlit air around their shadowy bed of bearskins. Scattered shades: cat-green eyes, spun-gold crown, silver-smoke sword, bone-white steps, storm-grey stare — a night-black shadow turning it all ruby-red.

She swallows, can taste it still as salt-rust on her tongue: blood — _father’s_ blood — drops of it swelling to a waterfall that chokes her even now in the moon-glow of home. A lung-deep breath; it rushes forward to drag at her, to _drown_ her.

Fragments to join the scattered shades: blade through bone, hard grip on her elbows, a scream — _hers_ — an echo amongst the blood and braying of the crowd, days of darkness, silk pillows sodden with the water-weight of grief and shame and terror…

 _Delicate, dutiful_ — life begun, life _before_. A russet-red hatchling in a lion’s soft-cupped paw, a dark-dyed fledgling in a mockingbird’s nest: delicate, dutiful, dead-eyed, dip-tongued, bent, beaten, broken — then, that was _then_ … and now?

A phoenix — flame-feathered, sharp-beaked, spread-winged — cutting the sky as steel through silk. Fragments scatter, shades shatter, ghosts drift away as smoke from the fire. A lung-deep breath; it recedes, salt-rust spat from her tongue.

Her fingertip traces the swell of his lips, soft-parted in sleep; an ear to his chest, the thrum of his heart calling to hers as a wolf in the wood.

 

* * *

 

She is at the window when he wakes, the sun-rays limning her shoulders as a cloak of fire flaring porcelain skin all the shades of flame: orange, yellow, blood-red as her hair a molten flow down her back.

“You will go south.” Her voice sets frost on the glass. “You _will_ come back… won’t you?”

A shiver in the sunlight; her skin a blot of ice-prickles as he steps up from the bed, slides her back against the hard heat of his body. It takes a moment, then — a creak of bones as his arms tighten at her ribs, a brush of fingertips as she finds his cheek — she _melts_ into him.

“I will come back.”

“To me?”

“To _you_ , Sansa Stark.”

She is like glass in the dawnlight: sun-warm, jewel-bright — opal, ruby, moonstone shifting like water-ripples beneath the path of his touch. Sapphire, too, as she looks back over her shoulder; flare-eyed, they drink each other.

“Delicate, dutiful.” Her words are breath-kisses on his skin. “Father would not have left Winterfell in my hands.”

Wild beard a feather to her throat; he tightens his arms as she tilts toward his touch. “Father did not know you as I do — _nobody_ knows you as I do.” She is honey in his hold; he chases the taste of it with his tongue. “I know the wolf beneath the amber, the steel beneath the silk… I know _all_ of you, my love.”

“My love?”

“Aye, _my_ love.”

Spread-fingered, her hands grasp at the glass; her back arches, her legs part — no more than a sapphire-cut look over her shoulder and he is inside her. His fingers run the bone-notched valley between her breasts, the milk-white stretch of her throat. He circles her chin in his clasp, bends her toward his kiss.

It lands on her open lips; salt-sweet, he draws the moan from her mouth, feels it spread as honey-smoke across his tongue. “Until I return, the North is yours.”

“And you?”

“Yours, too… _always_.”

His hand finds hers; thread-fingered, they melt the frost breath-blown upon the glass. He closes his eyes, lands a kiss on the petal-soft skin of her throat. A sigh — siren’s spell, the murmur of the sea at low tide — floods past her lips.

They move together as the castle wakes beyond the window; her back to his ribs, the thrum of their hearts calling to each other as wolves in the wood.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **NB** : from my dabbling in snippets of clips of the show, I see this as a continuation of [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PH4G9-Kt4B0) — except Sansa's fears for Jon revolve around what happened to Ned and not Rickard. A softer side to the wild wolves I usually write them as; feedback, as always, is very welcome. 🐺❤️


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